


Pod

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock helps assuage his cellmate’s isolation. (Set in <i>Black Fire</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pod

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is fanfiction specifically for the ST book _Black Fire_ by Sonni Cooper, during Spock’s stay in the Minos rehabilitation center with a Romulan inmate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He hears the creak of the mattress when the weight leaves it, and Spock knows exactly who’s creeping through the dark. His other two cellmates are asleep, breathing slow and steady: a monotonous human sound. The Romulan who sleeps in the top bunk on the other side, directly across from him, has a whole different pattern of breath and is different in most things— _fascinating._ He caught Spock’s eye from the beginning.

Spock must’ve caught Desus’ attention as well, because Desus rescued him more than once, in a manner of speaking—stopped another inmate from ripping him to shreds in their little cell or tackling him to the dirt ground in the bleak outside. Desus’ footsteps are light and precise and stop at Spock’s bunk, and Spock rolls over, peering through the only semi-darkness. The half-lit ceiling distinguishes the handsome features of the one man in this prison even remotely like himself. 

Desus whispers, “May I join you?” And Spock nods immediately. The man in the bunk below Spock’s is far less quiet, far less helpful, and Desus hovering by him is hardly smart. Spock shuffles back in the dilapidated mattress, and Desus hikes himself up with the sort of graceful ease that only a Romulan or a Vulcan in better shape than Spock could muster. 

Like all of the inmates at night, Desus is in only his underwear—they’re not permitted any other clothes than the standard jump suits they wear during the day. The dim light trickles over Desus’ creamy skin as he lies down in the mattress, kicking his bare legs under the thin blanket—Spock lifts it to accommodate his cellmate. Desus gives him a small, grateful smile and lays his head down on the pillow, just on the very end, face level with Spock’s. Spock’s acutely aware of his own nakedness but doesn’t ask the reason for the intrusion; Desus will explain himself. In the meantime, Spock pretends to occupy himself with smoothing out the blanket and shifting his sore limbs. The bunks are small, and there’s hardly any room between them. When he looks back at Desus’ face, Desus whispers, “I’ve been in here a long time.”

There is nothing to say to that, so Spock says nothing. He doesn’t know the extent of Desus crimes, whether or not this punishment is fair, or even if he has any right to judge. Once he makes the mistake of looking at Desus’ eyes, he finds it difficult to pull away. 

They glint and seem to dance when Desus looks at him back, but then Desus’ eyelids lower halfway. His lashes are long and dark to match his straight-cut hair, disheveled from the day’s work and fraying around the elegant points of his ears. He brings one hand to the pillow, the side of it nearly brushing Spock’s lips, his strong shoulder hooked over the blanket. The view of Desus’ bare shoulders shouldn’t be as enticing as it is to Spock, but he knows he hasn’t been himself of late. Desus reminds him of another Romulan he used to know, except this one comes closer, comes to his aid and speaks to him often, looks at him now with a faint green blush across too-attractive cheeks. Desus murmurs, “I’ve been here more than long enough to feel... lonely.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. There’s a dryness in his throat he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He doesn’t bother to mention any of the center’s many human choices to ‘alleviate’ loneliness with—a specimen as pretty as Desus surely wouldn’t have too much difficulty finding someone willing. But humans are... humans. And Spock knows better than most that the humans currently around them aren’t exactly friendly to aliens. 

Spock shouldn’t be friendly with Romulans either, but he’s already fallen past that. He placed his chips. It would be foolish to cling to Starfleet’s official policies when he’s no longer a part of that organization, and Desus is his only... _friend_.

Desus mumbles, more bluntly and confidently now that Spock hasn’t stopped him, “I am aware, of course, that Vulcans are more... sexually conservative.” He pauses, sucks in a breath deep enough to draw Spock’s eyes to the movement of his chest, and continues, “But Romulans have needs.” He looks at Spock through his heavy lashes and doesn’t fill in the rest. He doesn’t have to; Spock knows. 

Spock can feel the heat of Desus’ body all along his front, and to a man used to the heat of Vulcan’s deserts, it’s more than welcome. He doesn’t answer, because he can’t; he might be out of Starfleet, but he’s still a _Vulcan_. He’s nowhere near _pon farr_ , and he wouldn’t speak of it even if he was. The only man he’s ever considered breaking that Vulcan control for is far, far away, off in the stars, where Spock can’t join him, not for another five years or until everything changes. 

But Desus is right here, right now, and Desus _knows_ what it means to be a Vulcan, and when Spock really _looks_ into Desus’ eyes, he doesn’t think Desus wants to dissuade Spock of that. 

Desus doesn’t ask for much. It doesn’t feel like it, anyway. Not after all the other indignities Spock’s suffered off late. When Desus shuffles closer, it’s nothing like being at the Begum’s feet, paralyzed and helpless. Being near-naked with Desus isn’t like being stripped down by guards and paraded through public past so many familiar faces, stripped again in this tiny cell and made to change in front of angry-looking humans. Desus’ hand slips from the pillow to the side of Spock’s face, up the curve of his cheekbone, thumb carefully brushing the skin just below his eye. Spock’s eyes are sliding shut as Desus’ are, and Desus crosses the distance, head tilting to fit. 

His lips brush Spock’s, soft and moist and too pleasant after everything Spock’s gone through. The spark of pleasure they instantly ignite is a relief through all the pain, and Spock is mildly ashamed but can’t bring himself to push away. He doesn’t move, not really, only shifts his head slightly, not wanting their noses to knock together. He does know how to kiss, even if he doesn’t practice often. Through their touch, through Desus’ fingers on his face and their mouths sealed together, he can sense the desperation in Desus’ mind, the need and the _want_ for him. But it remains gentle, anyway: soft and probing. Impressive Romulan control. 

Desus parts from him by only centimeters, hovers away and breathes against him, “May I do that again?”

Spock hesitates with his answer. He can taste Desus’ breath. He can still hear the others, dead asleep, but he can also hear the steady beating of Desus’ heart and the drawing up of Desus’ closest leg beneath the mattress. Their knees collide. Spock finally decides, careful to remain just as quiet, “You may. ...But this can go no further.”

Desus nods his understanding and leans forward all the same. There’s a jolt of enjoyment no lesser than the first, and Spock indulges himself in a lengthy, warm kiss with a skilled partner. Desus’ hand slips around to the back of his neck, teasing the soft tufts of hair and Spock’s sensitive skin. He feels hypersensitive all over, and he shivers as Desus’ knee slides closer, brushing against his inner thigh. When Desus’ tongue slithers along the seam of Spock’s lips, he dutifully parts them. Desus slips inside and moans into Spock’s mouth, arching forward. Spock slips his arm beneath the blanket and shamefully loops it around Desus’ waist, his own tongue meeting Desus somewhere in the middle. They kiss slowly but eagerly, and Spock nearly enjoys the companionship as much as the physical sensation of being _touched_. There’re so many dimensions to the warmth that flows into Spock’s head through Desus’ palm. When Desus pulls away again, Spock doesn’t want him to go. 

For no particularly reason, Spock murmurs, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

Desus quirks another cute smile, lips slick with their mingled saliva. He whispers, “Is that why you let me kiss you? A sense of obligation?”

Spock merely shakes his head: _no_.

But he knows he’s tempted himself too much, and now, as he looks over the handsome body of his only companion, possibly the only one he’ll have for _five years_ , he knows he won’t be able to resist if he looks much longer. There are traces of Julina in Desus’ bone structure, in the Romulan cut of his chin and eyebrows, and there are more subtle reminders of _Jim_ that make it harder. Desus’ hand slips away, and it takes the telepathic lingering of affection with it. 

Desus’ face says that he knows he’s had all he can tonight. His actions show that he respects that. But he doesn’t leave Spock’s bunk, and Spock doesn’t want him to. 

Spock forces himself to roll onto his other side, facing the dingy wall, and he keeps to his far end of the pillow, trying not to muse on just how _ashamed_ his father would be to know of this: of _all_ of this. A slender arm wraps around his middle, and Desus cuddles up to his back. The body heat is more than welcome. The soft skin flush against his own is a danger. Yet he can’t bring himself to move away.

He feels inexplicable _safer_ like this. Maybe in numbers. Maybe because Desus has already saved him before. ...Or maybe because the last man to hold Spock so tenderly _always_ came to his rescue, and hopefully, someday will again.


End file.
